Madame Bovary eBook

Why did he always offer a glass of something to everyone
who came? What obstinacy not to wear flannels!
In the spring it came about that a notary at Ingouville,
the holder of the widow Dubuc’s property, one
fine day went off, taking with him all the money in
his office. Heloise, it is true, still possessed,
besides a share in a boat valued at six thousand francs,
her house in the Rue St. Francois; and yet, with all
this fortune that had been so trumpeted abroad, nothing,
excepting perhaps a little furniture and a few clothes,
had appeared in the household. The matter had
to be gone into. The house at Dieppe was found
to be eaten up with mortgages to its foundations; what
she had placed with the notary God only knew, and
her share in the boat did not exceed one thousand
crowns. She had lied, the good lady! In his
exasperation, Monsieur Bovary the elder, smashing
a chair on the flags, accused his wife of having caused
misfortune to the son by harnessing him to such a
harridan, whose harness wasn’t worth her hide.
They came to Tostes. Explanations followed.
There were scenes. Heloise in tears, throwing
her arms about her husband, implored him to defend
her from his parents.

Charles tried to speak up for her. They grew
angry and left the house.

But “the blow had struck home.” A
week after, as she was hanging up some washing in
her yard, she was seized with a spitting of blood,
and the next day, while Charles had his back turned
to her drawing the window-curtain, she said, “O
God!” gave a sigh and fainted. She was
dead! What a surprise! When all was over
at the cemetery Charles went home. He found no
one downstairs; he went up to the first floor to their
room; say her dress still hanging at the foot of the
alcove; then, leaning against the writing-table, he
stayed until the evening, buried in a sorrowful reverie.
She had loved him after all!

Chapter Three

One morning old Rouault brought Charles the money
for setting his leg—­seventy-five francs
in forty-sou pieces, and a turkey. He had heard
of his loss, and consoled him as well as he could.

“I know what it is,” said he, clapping
him on the shoulder; “I’ve been through
it. When I lost my dear departed, I went into
the fields to be quite alone. I fell at the foot
of a tree; I cried; I called on God; I talked nonsense
to Him. I wanted to be like the moles that I saw
on the branches, their insides swarming with worms,
dead, and an end of it. And when I thought that
there were others at that very moment with their nice
little wives holding them in their embrace, I struck
great blows on the earth with my stick. I was
pretty well mad with not eating; the very idea of
going to a cafe disgusted me—­you wouldn’t
believe it. Well, quite softly, one day following
another, a spring on a winter, and an autumn after
a summer, this wore away, piece by piece, crumb by
crumb; it passed away, it is gone, I should say it